


The Dark, Too, Blooms and Sings

by halcyon_autumn



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Huddling For Warmth, Kissing, Love Confessions, Pining, Sharing a Bed, guys I was stressed about the US elections so I wrote a fic that's purely driven by ID, tenderly patching up the wounds of the woman you're in love with, turns out my ID is just one person saying "and there was only one bed"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27586993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyon_autumn/pseuds/halcyon_autumn
Summary: For now, the possibility of freezing to death was a bigger threat than their injuries, but they’d need to do something about their wounds soon. “We need some sort of shelter,” Sylvain muttered as they trudged forward.Ingrid grunted as she took another step.  “Even if we find someone who’ll take us in, there’s no surety that they won’t rat us out. We’ve both got bounties on our heads.”“I know,” Sylvain said. And then, because he was petty, “my bounty is bigger.”After barely escaping capture by Cornelia's forces, Sylvain and Ingrid find themselves alone, wounded, and desperate for shelter from the coming cold.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 21
Kudos: 41





	The Dark, Too, Blooms and Sings

Icy wind tore down from the north, shredding through Sylvain’s armor and making his teeth chatter. It was evening, and the wind rushing in promised the sort of night that would freeze his snot while still in his nose. This was typical of Faerghus in late autumn.

What was _not_ typical was that Sylvain was half carrying one of his best friends across a plain of dying grass, miles from any sort of shelter. Ingrid was refusing to admit that she was injured, which was annoying, but somewhat comforting in its familiarity. None of Sylvain’s friends had any sense of self-preservation.

Cornelia’s soldiers had ambushed them on what was supposed to be a routine patrol. It was, Sylvain had to admit, a beautiful hit. They’d managed to capture both him and Ingrid, then warp away before their battalions could respond. Cornelia would have been giddy to be able to execute two Crested warriors, especially when they were the former Prince’s friends. The Dukedom soldiers had been giddy too, giddy enough that they didn’t notice Ingrid slowly wearing away at her bonds with a rock she’d picked up. 

Sylvain hated his Crest, he _really_ did, but there was no denying the convenience of something that let him and Ingrid win a fight where they were outnumbered five to one. Ingrid had managed to untie his ropes without the Dukedom soldiers noticing, and then it had simply been a matter of stealing weapons and wreaking havoc. They’d fought their way out, but not without Ingrid getting stabbed in the side. Sylvain got off easier, with a cut to his cheek, bruises across his ribs, and a few shallow gashes across his arm. Hopefully the scars would look dashing and manly.

For now, the possibility of freezing to death was a bigger threat than their injuries, but they’d need to do something about their wounds soon. “We need some sort of shelter,” Sylvain muttered as they trudged forward. 

Ingrid grunted as she took another step. “Even if we find someone who’ll take us in, there’s no surety that they won’t rat us out. We’ve both got bounties on our heads.”

“I know,” Sylvain said. And then, because he was petty, “my bounty is bigger.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes, but she was grinning a little bit and that made his chest relax. The next second she stumbled against him. He caught her, easily, but he hated himself a little for the way he wanted to hold onto her and possibly kiss her in the light of the fading sunrise. But he wasn’t going to. Contrary to what everyone thought, he was capable of restraint. 

Now, to be fair, he spent most of that restraint on not telling Ingrid he was in love with her, so he didn’t have much left over for the rest of his life. But still. He deserved some credit.

“I’m fine,” Ingrid said before he could ask. It was a lie, but it wasn’t like pushing her to admit the truth would make the situation any better. “Maybe we can find a cave and - do you see that?”

Sylvain squinted in the direction that Ingrid was pointing. “Some sort of cabin. Thank the goddess.”

Ingrid frowned. “We can’t risk someone seeing us.”

“You know, you’re right. Hypothermia is the better option. I think it’ll perk us right up.”

Ingrid scowled at him, which meant she knew she was losing. “I don’t like it.”

Well, in a worst case scenario, Sylvain was willing to, er, commander the house with or without the owner’s permission. A night tied up and shoved in a side room never did anyone any harm. Well, emotionally it might, but the way Ingrid stumbled over her next step drove his already faint moral qualms out of his mind.

“Let’s just get a feel for the situation,” he said. 

As he approached, the Goddess blessed him (or, more likely, Ingrid). It was a hunting cabin. Even better, after a bit of scouting Sylvain realized it was an _abandoned_ hunting cabin. No one was spending much time in places like these in the middle of a war.

“Finally,” Sylvain muttered as he hefted a rock. This seemed like a good weight. “We catch a lucky break.” He flung the rock through the window, watching it shatter several very expensive panes of glass. He could probably have found a less destructive way in, but this felt cathartic.

“This would be...Lord Charon’s place, right?” Ingrid asked. “I think he’s got a place out here. Didn’t you sleep with his niece?”

Two of his nieces, actually. Sylvain ignored the question as he knocked the rest of the glass shards out of the window. “Okay, we climb in here, find somewhere to start a fire, steal some blankets, and ride out the night.”

“Can’t start a fire,” Ingrid muttered. “It’ll attract soldiers. We’ll just find as many blankets as we can.” She tried to boost herself up and through the window, then wince. “Damn. Shouldn’t have let that idiot get a hit in on me. Help me up?”

“Ingrid, you’re the only person I know besides Felix who thinks that they should be able to avoid every hit in a fight.” Careful of her injury, Sylvain hefted Ingrid up into his arms and swung her through the open window. His fingertips brushed the skin of her arm for one moment, and then Ingrid was in the room and out of his hands.

“I’ll keep watch,” she said, settling herself onto the floor as he followed her in. “Find blankets and something that can pass for bandages.”

He saluted her, then laughed at the rude gesture she gave him in return. It was easy to hide how pained he felt at leaving her there, sitting on the floor. She could handle herself but it was just….hard to leave her.

In Faerghus, people didn’t leave blankets behind. What people in Faerghus did do, especially rich ones, was order their servants to cover everything in dust cloths when they left one fancy hunting lodge for a manor house, or vice versa. The cloths were thin, but at least he found dozens. Lord Charon would have to put up with a bit of dust.

Ingrid was waiting when he returned. “Those aren’t blankets.”

“Nope,” he said as he settled down beside her. 

“Tonight is going to be freezing.”

He started to cut the first of the dust cloths into long strips. “Yup.” 

Ideally he’d have boiled the fabric before using them for bandages, but they couldn’t risk a fire. Instead Sylvain did his best to shake the dust off, then sat beside Ingrid and wound bandages around her bloody midsection. It wasn’t so bad, if he didn’t think about the fact that it was Ingrid’s body he was bandaging, Ingrid’s body that someone had slammed a dagger into. He’d been too far away to do anything but watch as she took the blow. For one terrifying moment he’d thought she was dead. 

And then of course she’d speared her attacker, because she was Ingrid and didn’t let little things like being stabbed stop her, but he kept seeing the blade go in over and over. Goddess, he hated being forced to address his friends’ mortality. But Ingrid was alive, if paler than usual, so he focused on that until he was finished. “Well, I’ve done worse,” leaning back to survey his work. Mercedes would have been proud.

Ingrid rolled her eyes as she pulled one of the thin sheets around her shoulders. “It’ll be fine,” she said, with a confidence that Sylvain didn’t quite feel. They knew where they were at least, but the bulk of their forces were at least two days away, longer depending on how much their injuries slowed them down.

“Let’s find a bedroom,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m exhausted.”

Ingrid arched her eyebrows, and he put on a falsely offended air. “Lady Galatea, do you doubt my intentions?”

“Not really,” Ingrid said, and held a hand out to him. “Help me up.”

Stupid, to notice how warm her hand was as he grasped it. Stupid, to want to pull her into his arms and tell her how terrified he’d been today when he thought he might lose her, how much he relied on her steady determination, how her own brush with death frightened him more than any injury he’d ever had. Stupid to even think she’d entertain the idea of being with him.

“Sylvain?” Ingrid reached up and gently turned his face towards her. “Are you alright?”

Instinct kicked in as he heard the concern in her voice, and he grinned widely to hide the direction of his thoughts. “Oh, I’m peachy. I was just remembering that Lord Charon forbade me from ever setting foot on his lands again. He’s gonna be livid if he ever finds out I broke in and slept in his bed.”

Ingrid huffed, but it turned into a laugh that surprised both of them. Sylvain smiled at her, ignoring the painful thing that happened in his chest whenever he lied to Ingrid. It was worth it to make her laugh. “We don’t have to sleep in his bed, you know,” she said as he tugged her forward.

Sylvain grinned again. “Oh, I know that we don’t have to.”

Ingrid gave in, and Sylvain was delighted when they found the enormous king bed in what had to be the master bedroom. He immediately flung himself across the mattress. “Ugh, we haven’t slept in a real bed in what, two weeks?”

“Three,” Ingrid said, settling onto the floor. The sun had almost fully set, and he could see her silhouette more than he could actually see her. “I can sleep here. This is a rather nice rug, actually. I think it’s Adrestian.”

He sat up so quickly he nearly catapulted himself off the side. He’d just wrapped bandages around her bloody body, and now she was trying to act as though she hadn’t been _stabbed in the side._ “You take the bed.”

“No, I -”

“Ingrid, my dear friend, one of my oldest companions, I say this with incredible respect for you and your prowess as a warrior. You are more injured than me. I can and will pick you up and drop you on this mattress over and over until I prove my point. Take the bed.”

There was a beat of silence before Ingrid muttered “fine” and climbed onto the mattress.

She was right that the floor was comfortable, actually. Edelgard’s country may have torn his homeland apart, set up a puppet ruler, and caused the death of one of his best friends, but they knew how to make a good rug. It was nicer than sleeping outside, at least, even if they’d still be cold from the lack of a fire.

“Sylvain?” Ingrid asked after a few minutes. Her voice caught on his name, and something about the way she said it made his breath catch in his throat.

He swallowed. “Yes?”

“I know it’s silly but - could you get in the bed with me? Like when we were kids?” He could hear her teeth chattering. “It’s just so cold.”

“Yes,” he said, before his brain had time to catch up to his mouth. “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

He was in the bed beside her without consciously deciding to move, simultaneously soothed and made anxious by her nearness. For a moment, he panicked - how close was too close? He had to lay close enough that they’d both be warm, but still keep a friendly, platonic distance.

He settled on about six inches away from Ingrid, feeling keenly aware of both how close and how far apart they were. As he pulled the thin sheets over them both, Ingrid turned towards him. He could just barely make the curve of her cheek and the shine of her hair in the faint moonlight. “Is that better?” He asked. He sounded breathless. She had to hear it. She was going to realize how he felt.

“Yes,” she said. Did she sound relieved, maybe? He couldn’t quite tell. 

Sylvain could feel her shivering, just slightly. Slowly, so she had plenty of warning, he reached out and draped his arm over her shoulders. His chest eased as he heard her sigh in contentment. Her legs shifted a few inches nearer to his. Neither of their upper bodies moved, but he let his legs inch closer and closer, holding his breath until he felt the pressure of legs against his.

This was torture. This was exquisite. 

“Sylvain?” Ingrid asked.

“Hmm?” He tried to focus on her words rather than how close she was. _Don’t mess it up. Don’t do anything a best friend wouldn’t do._

“Thanks for your help out there today. If it had just been me, things might have gone differently.”

He had a sudden sharp image of Ingrid, alone on the executioner’s block. “Wouldn’t have happened,” he said, with a confidence he could almost convince himself he felt. He needed to be careful. Her sheer nearness, the way their legs were _almost_ tangled together, was making him reckless. “You’d have fought your way out somehow. You’re incredible.”

Ingrid didn’t respond. Goddess, did she take even his compliment as a come-on? It was, in a way, but no more than anything else he said. Every sentence he spoke to her had the subtext of _I would kiss you right here and now if you wanted me to_ , even if they were merely speaking about the weather.

Thinking about kissing Ingrid was _not_ helpful. 

“I’m just glad you were there,” Ingrid said finally into the cold silence of the room. “I know I lectured you and called you lazy at the academy, but...I don’t know.”

“But what?” he asked, sudden desperation seizing him.

Ingrid shifted, almost imperceptible. “I don’t know how to say it, and I don’t want to say it wrong.”

What in the name of every blessed Saint did _that_ mean?

“You’re - not different, exactly,” Ingrid said slowly. “I mean, you’re still infuriating, and you still chase too many girls.”

“Sure,” Sylvain agreed automatically. With a staggering show of self-control, he did not reach out and brush away the lock of her hair that threatened to fall across her face. Songs should be sung about his restraint. He did shift closer, infinitesimally, and could have sworn she did the same.

“But - I don’t know.” Her voice had gone soft. “You were always reliable when we really needed you. And now we _always_ need you, Felix and I, and you’re always there for us and I just - I’m really glad. We need you. If I ever called you unreliable before, I was wrong.”

Ingrid didn’t believe in admitting she was wrong unless she really, truly felt it, so he took this seriously. It meant more to him than he would have expected, but he shifted away from her. He hated feeling seen. He hated knowing that people were paying attention to his real motivations. He would have been more comfortable dancing on a table in a tavern than facing Ingrid’s gentle understanding.

“Ingrid, that almost sounds like an apology,” he said, letting his voice shift into the register he used for teasing her. Making jokes was much, much safer. He pulled his legs away, suddenly feeling like a retreat was in order.

“I guess it is,” she muttered, and her grumpiness let him relax, though he immediately tensed again at the next words out of her mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to crowd you. Here.” And then, in an act that had to be both divine mercy and retribution, she pulled one of the spare pillows down and made a tiny wall between their chests. “I didn’t mean to take your space.”

_Goddess why. Why?_

“Don’t you trust me?” he asked, although he regretted the joke immediately. He’d made so many passes at her over the years. A few had been genuine, but most had simply been out of habit. That had stopped the moment he realized he actually, horror of horror, _had feelings for her_. But Ingrid didn’t know that. Maybe she didn’t trust him.

“You moved back,” Ingrid said, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling in sheer frustration. “I thought I was too close.”

He could feel an admission rattling around inside him, spurred on by her nearness. He had to do something. Piss her off. Say something stupid. “Ingrid, I’m always happy to have you near me.”

Well that didn’t come out with the right tone _at all._ He’d meant to draw out the ‘happy,’ make it sound so over the top and lecherous that she rolled her eyes and smacked his arm. Instead, it came out gentle and earnest. _Vulnerable,_ even. 

Ingrid was silent for a long moment. Sylvain frantically tried to think of a plan. Should he get out of the bed? Apologize? Walk into the night with the hope that the freezing cold killed him so he didn’t have to face the consequences of his actions?

“Don’t - don’t do that,” Ingrid whispered, so quiet he could barely hear her. “Flirt all you want because there’s no way to stop you, but don’t talk to me like that.”

“Like what?” He asked, because he was desperate to know and also because he hated himself. Why not risk destroying one of his oldest friendships out of mere curiosity?

Ingrid rolled onto her back. “Like it’s real,” she said to the ceiling above them. “Like you mean it.”

Maybe, if she wasn’t so close - if her hair wasn’t tickling his cheek, if he couldn’t hear her breath into the near blackness of the room - he wouldn’t have said it. Maybe if she wasn’t injured, if he hadn’t thought she might die, if he hadn’t been in love with her for years and years, he would have kept it to himself. But without even making the decision, he spoke. “I do mean it.”

With a movement more brutal than a punch to the gut, Ingrid jerked away from him. He felt more than saw the gulf between them, the sudden sharp lack of her body heat. Cold air filled the space between them, and a horrified chill spread across his chest. He’d ruined it. She must be furious.

But then she spoke, and her voice quivered like she was going to cry. “Stop it, Sylvain. Don’t do this.” The dark shadow of her silhouette grew smaller, as if she was curling in on herself and away from him. “Don’t treat me like I’m another person to - to distract yourself with and then throw aside.”

“I’m not,” he whispered back. The space between them felt like a chasm and he realized a moment before he did it that he was about to plunge into it. “I swear I mean it, Ingrid. I - I’m in love with you.”

Silence. 

Painful silence, the sort that made him long for a mere dagger buried into his ribs instead of the ache cracking his chest open. Ingrid didn’t speak, and he couldn’t speak, and he wondered how long they’d stay locked in this unbreakable silence before Ingrid told him - 

“I love you too.”

He twisted towards her, certain that he’d misheard. “What?”

And then Ingrid crashed against him, her arms tugging him closer, her face pressed against his chest. “I love you too,” she whispered like it pained her to admit. Ingrid in pain was unacceptable, so he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her even closer even as his mind whirled. _Him?_ She loved _him?_ Something burst in his chest, some fierce elation and relief that made him laugh aloud before pressing his forehead against hers.

“Have we both been feeling this way for ages?” He asked. “Saints, we’re idiots.”

Ingrid laughed, and her voice sounded more steady. “I’ve felt this way for at least a year. I thought it was only me.”

“No,” he said, gently brushing her hair out of her face. He could feel her body relaxing now that the truth was out. “You really had me there for a moment. I thought I’d ruined everything.”

“I - also thought you’d ruined everything,” Ingrid said, then laughed at the affronted noise Sylvain made. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I thought you were joking, and I couldn’t bear to have you joke about being in love with me when I...” she trailed off.

“When you’re madly in love with me,” Sylvain said, still awed at the idea. Ingrid punched him on the arm, then bundled up even closer to him.

“Hey Ingrid,” he whispered, “I don’t want to push my luck here, but I’ve been thinking about kissing you for literal years, so -”

Her mouth was against his before he finished speaking. He kissed her back, delighted to discover that Ingrid was an excellent kisser. She made a pleased little noise as he ran his hand up the back of her neck, into her hair. She rose up, throwing one leg over his hips. It was easy, familiar, as if they’d done this a thousand times already, so it felt natural as he reached up to tug her closer to him - 

And she rolled off him, grunting. “Ow,” she hissed, her hand going to her side. “I’m too injured for this.” 

“Damn,” he said. “Ah, well. There’s plenty of time for that.” The idea of more time - of days spread out where he could kiss Ingrid at his leisure, stay by her side, fight with her at his back - made him a little giddy. 

Ingrid curled up against him, tangling her legs between his. He slid her down so that her head was tucked under his chin. “I like that,” she said. “More time.” He could hear the smile in her voice.

In the morning, they would make the long trudge to meet up with the rest of the Kingdom forces. Their soldiers would cheer. Felix would berate them for taking so long to come back, but they’d both know he was secretly relieved. The war would stretch on for three grueling years. And then the Professor would return, and Dimitri too, and Sylvain and Ingrid would watch their country rise up in a blaze of hope that they’d never expected to see again.

But for now there were only the two of them, bodies curled around each other, each lulled to sleep by the sound of the other breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the rought draft of this while INCREDIBLY stressed during the US elections, so it is PURE ID. Then Biden won and we could all breathe again, and I managed to edit this into something coherent. Much thanks to the wonderful [Paperpenpal](https://twitter.com/paperpenpal) for doing multiple rounds of edits and providing excellent feedback. As always, much love to the Sylgrid discord for being encouraging whenever I posted snippets and just generally being a group of awesome people.
> 
> The title comes from a poem by Wendell Berry called "To Know The Dark"
> 
> Follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/halcyon_autumn) for more Fire Emblem thoughts


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